


Gun

by crabapplered



Category: Resident Evil - All Media Types, Resident Evil 4 - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, Dubious Consent, Forced Fem, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-06
Updated: 2011-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabapplered/pseuds/crabapplered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adapt or die. Leon is still alive, even in the heart of Umbrella. (Set sometime after RE4, the sequel to Knife.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Crooked House

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to Knife. As with Knife, it takes RE4 into account as well as the older games, and it also sort of cherry picks from RE5. It's also much less focused on porn and much more on plot. I hope you all enjoy it!

**There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,  
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.  
He bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse. . . **

~

Truth: humanity is contemptibly indecisive, hovering on the border between animal and god.

Pathetic.

Still, it has managed to produce a few things worth while. Things like capitalism, psychology, and the clean elegance of science.

Wesker's made considerable use of all three on his long, twisting road toward his goals, using them to pick bits of gold out of the dross around him. Here a bit of blackmail, there a drug of just the right sort, an occasional bribe to leverage someone's greed. . .

He smiles at that particular thought, settling deeper into his high backed executive's chair. Bribery is a large part of what has brought him today's particular little triumph. Who'd have thought his long ago investment in one soldier would have turned out so well? When he's first payed to have Krauser's helicopter brought down and the man stranded, he'd had only thoughts of acquiring an inside agent, a disposable turncoat he could re-mould to fit his needs. And when he'd pulled the man out of the twisted wreckage, bloodied and half-crippled, he'd thought his prey nothing more then a back ally tomcat, hissing and spitting against being tamed for the first time.

But that scruffy alley cat has become quite a tiger. Loyal and savage and hungry, always hungry for fresh prey. He keeps the vermin out of Umbrella with ruthless efficiency. A favoured pet.

So when he asked for a toy, well. Who was Wesker to deny him? One has to reward good behaviour.

And again an unexpected payout. Kennedy had been quite the thorn what with his networking in the government, poking his nose into situations and sending in his own agents to topple Wesker's little projects. But now he is nothing but prey, well and truly caught. An offering for Krauser to lay at Wesker's feet.

Wesker glances at his watch. Not long now till he sees his newest acquisition.

~

Signing on with Umbrella is easier then it should be, but then, so is pretty much everything that's horribly bad for you.

Maybe it would be harder if it weren't all so aching familiar. This isn't the first time Leon's been manipulated into working for people he hates, and as he stands naked and cold in the Umbrella examination room he lets his thoughts drift back to Sherry. His old ball and chain. Has the government looked after her all these years? They promised to but that means pretty much shit, and he's never been able to check in to his satisfaction, never been allowed to see her after that last goodbye.

She'd be . . . God, she'd be close to twenty by now.

She'll need a college fund. In his will he'd left her all his money, all his things. It had seemed only right - she's his last tie, the closest thing he's got to family.

He wonders if she'll get it. He likes to think that Hunnigan will make sure she does. He likes to think, in some broken part of him still remaining, that Hunnigan cares. Certainly she'd been the only bright bit of warmth in his time with the government, and that's something that's mirrored back at him here, too. Everyone at Umbrella has cold, dead eyes. Empty.

With just one spot of warmth: Jack.

He's watching Leon with a faint smile hitching his scarred lips. Patronizing-proud as Umbrella's scientists give Leon his physical. It makes the touch of strangers almost bearable.

The lead scientist makes soft, pleased sounds as she runs her hand down Leon's spine a final time. There's nothing sensual about it, just the impersonal touch of an inspector appreciating meat of a quality cut, fit for the king's own table. And he'll be served up nice and fresh - Jack is taking him to see Wesker as soon as the docs are done.

 _Visiting my new boss, the murderer of Raccoon City and Tsar of bio-Terrorists. That'll be a barrel of laughs. I wonder if I can get away with just a casual 'Your Evilness,' or if I should use something more formal. Tch. Either way, something tells me I probably shouldn't give him any one-fingered salutes._

No matter how tempting he might find it. Never mind what Wesker'll do, it'll piss of _Jack_ , and Leon won't do that. Can't do that. Not anymore.

"Get dressed, Woman. We don't want to keep the boss waiting." Jack pushes clothing into Leon's hands. Jack's castoffs. They hang in loose folds over Leon's smaller frame. The tanktop's a billowy tunic on him, slipping off a shoulder and making him feel rumpled and half dressed; the cammo pants are so large he's got the pull the drawstrings to the limit to keep them from falling straight off his hips. At least his boots are his own, and he tucks the pant legs into them to keep the fabric from puddling on the floor.

He straightens up. Pauses to let Jack inspect him. Big hand on Leon's jaw, tilting his face to the light. Jack brushes Leon's hair from his face, lingers on Leon's cheekbone, fingers the curve of his ear and then toys with the drop earring that hangs there in a long line of silver.

"Pretty," says Jack, and Leon feels his skin heat as a rush of feelings makes blush smoulder on his cheeks and ears, the back of his neck. God, he just wants to preen, lean into Jack's touch and put himself on display. His lips part. He wets them with his tongue because he wants to kiss Jack, wants to _be_ kissed, his mouth opened up and used. Dressed in Jack's clothing and wrapped in Jack's scent, branded by those earrings as Jack's woman and it's still not enough. He still wants, more then anything, for Jack to prove how much he wants Leon.

Remembering the months he'd been kept in the cell helps, the effort that went into it, the merciless patience in Krauser's advances. The people Jack killed for him. The weeks kept in Jack's rooms are good memories, too. Jack fucking him as he pleased, hands all over Leon's skin and in his hair, his come in Leon's mouth and ass. The way he'd made Leon say it, over and over between kisses: "I'm your woman, Jack. Just yours. All yours."

But the fear still lingers like a shadow at the back of Leon's soul, unfading despite the memories, the reassurances, the brands. _Am I always gonna be like this?_ , he wonders as Jack rewards him with a single lazy swipe of his tongue across Leon's lips, then turns and leads him out of the lab. _Is this what happens when you let yourself become dependant?_

Whatever illusions he'd had about this being temporary are long since gone, burned away in a bloodied jail cell, Jack's hand on his dick. Jack shattered him in those months of captivity, and the mosaic he's built with the pieces of Leon's soul is the picture of a cripple. No matter what happens now, Leon is tied firmly -no. No, he's _chained_ \- to Jack.

 _What song was it that said 'I will go down with this ship'?_ He smiles wistfully. His future is a seemingly endless white hallway, with Jack's broad back before him, leading the way into hell.

And yet . . .

. . . and yet, there's something still there inside him. A vision of his former self settling into the shadows. Waiting. Patient.

He'd been a sniper once, and Jack had been his spotter. In time, Wesker will learn what that really means.

~

Wesker's office is the luxury version of an examination room. White walls and white floor and white ceiling. The cold, unforgiving lines of a stainless steel desk, the blue flicker of computer terminals, the ugly white light of fluorescents above. The windows behind show nothing but the expanse of Umbrella's compound, a tangle of cement rectangles with mirrored windows that look more like fortresses then the buildings of a modern workplace. The man sitting in the executive chair behind the desk is looks just about as warm and inviting.

It's Leon's first meeting with Wesker, and he's struck by the power of his simple presence. The man's handsome face is expressionless, his eyes invisible behind mirrored shades as he steeples his fingers and leans his elbows on the desk. Black leather head to toe, and hands covered in gloves of it besides, Leon notes. Odd detail. And the overall effect is of something predaceous and removed. Cold and hard.

Chris Redfield had called Wesker a snake in his reports. First impression makes it seem like a pretty accurate description.

Jack braces to attention a few feet from the desk. "Reporting as ordered, Sir." He reaches, and Leon's body is moving before his brain even registers what Jack wants. He comes to stand by Jack's side, straight and proud and leaning into Jack's touch on the nape of his neck as he's presented: "My woman, Leon."

Wesker's non-expression doesn't so much as flicker, but Leon's skin is suddenly pebbled with goosebumps as he feels the burning laser of Wesker's mirrored gaze focus on him.

"Ah, yes. And so we meet at last, Leon Scott Kennedy." He tilts his head and his lips twitch into something pretending to be a smile. "You were supposed to be my subordinate in the RPD, you know, though that fell through rather abruptly. But despite it all it seems you truly were destined to work for me in the end."

The single best thing about having worked for the government is that it taught Leon how to respond to self-congratulatory hot air: you stare just slightly to the left and above of your superior's right ear and you say, "Sir. Yes, Sir."

Wesker chuckles darkly, the soft rattle of a viper's tail, and stands. The movement is off because he just unfolds his legs and straightens easily, doesn't bother to brace himself on the desk as he rises despite having been off-balance leaned over like that. Humans don't move that way. Jack, despite what he's infected himself with, doesn't move that way.

 _What the hell is this guy?_

Whatever Wesker is exactly is unimportant; Leon's instincts have risen up within him and clamped down tight because Wesker is dangerous and vicious and looking for an excuse, any excuse, to lash out and make Leon bleed.

He stands before Leon and his touch, when it comes, is feather-light; the glove leather is so soft and fine it might as well be Wesker's own skin. The heat of his body soaks through easily and leaves smouldering trails on Leon's shoulder, on the trailing line of Leon's collarbone, on Leon's throat. He's watching Leon's face the whole time, and Leon feels like Wesker can see all the broken bits of his soul, feels like Wesker can see him naked. He feels sick at the thought, and fights not to show it.

Because Wesker is hungry. Hungry and waiting for a mistake.

Leon avoids the trap of watching himself in Wesker's mirrored shades and instead stares resolutely at the ceiling as he slowly, deliberately tips his head back just the inch needed to bare his throat to this man. To this _thing_.

Wesker hums low. Presses fingers to Leon's pulse point and lingers there one long, silent moment.

Then he tugs teasingly at one of Leon's earrings. Releases him. "My compliments, Krauser. She's a lovely woman."

First test passed.

 _Yeah, and a lifetime more to go,_ he bitches to himself. _Why don't I ever get recruited by people who throw parties for new-_

The sudden, jabbing memory almost breaks him out of his disciplined stance: a folding table loaded with party hats and paper plates, cups and soda and a card.

'Congratulations on your assignment to the Raccoon City Police department. . .'

And blood. Blood everywhere, and the smell of death because everyone who'd been supposed to welcome him had been killed, defiled, and then had to be killed again.

Because of Wesker.

 _They promised to take good care of me,_ he remembers. _What a joke._ His gaze flickers to Jack, and the broken pieces of Leon's mind grate against one another. Thank god that neither of them is watching him in that moment, Jack staring fixedly ahead and Wesker busy settling back into his chair and tapping at his computer console, because hate and despair make Leon's face twist into something ugly.

"Her preliminary examinations are quite promising," says Wesker, and Leon's expression is instantly back under control, his gaze back on this thing he'll have to call boss.

Blue light flickers on Wesker's face, backwards phrases scrolling upwards on his mirrored shades as he continues, "Certainly outstanding for an un-augmented specimen. And looking back over the surveillance reports it seems she's come quite nicely to heel. How pleasant to find obedience without having to resort to more. . . _forceful_ methods, since P30 simply isn't practical for long term use yet." Wesker's head cocks and Leon can feel that mirrored gaze on him again, calculating and alien. "Though I will confess, I would have been happy to have a second test subject for the project. And perhaps . . . well. No need to get ahead of ourselves. She won't be going anywhere, after all."

Jack smiles at that, but Leon knows Jack, knows him the way Wesker can't possibly, and he knows that smile is off. Just the fraction of a fraction of an inch but - it's not wide enough. It's not smug enough.

Interesting.

Wesker is still talking. Grandstanding, arrogant son of a bitch Redfield's report had said. Still accurate. "In any event, we must welcome her properly into the fold. There will be a corporate gala this Saturday. Bring your woman, Krauser. She can be our debutante. I'll have appropriate clothing sent to your apartment.

"Now. Leave."

"Sir," says Jack, and he leads Leon back out of the office.

Leon follows blindly, mind busy picking apart what he's seen and what he's learned. _Looks like I'm gonna get a welcome party after all._

An Umbrella welcome party. Well, there's only one thing he can say about that:

 _Shit._

~

Jack's quarters are an executive suite. Three spacious rooms that include a small private gym, a sitting room with a fat couch and a flat television, and bedroom who's bed blows right past king-sized to 'driveway'. There's carpet on the floor and a balcony overlooking the park area of one of the compounds, books to read and DVDs to watch, but there's only one thing Leon really cares about: the bathroom.

Specifically, the tub.

After months in a goddamn cell with only a sink and some hand soap or prison showers to get clean, the bathtub is a magical oasis of pristine white plastic sunk deep into the floor. It can fit three football players. It has jets. It is fucking _heated_.

And there's all the soap and shampoo he could ever ask for.

He's been sunk up to his nose in hot water for almost an hour now, easing sore muscles from his morning workout. Punching bag and weights, sure, but he's been putting in the most time on the treadmill, relishing the feel of stretching his legs into a jog, a run, a sprint.

In a little while he'll haul himself out of the tub and do his duties cleaning the apartment for his man, but for now. . .

. . . the door chime rings.

 _What?_ He freezes, unsure what he should do. Jack's never forbidden him from answering the door, but then again, he's never said Leon was allowed to, either.

The chime rings again. Leon bites his lower lip and weighs his options. Finally calls out, "Hang on! I'll be there in a minute."

He hauls himself out of the tub and gives himself a cursory towelling before yanking on clean clothing. He's not answering the door in nothing but a towel - Jack wouldn't like him giving someone else a show, and Leon himself feels sick at the thought of being so vulnerable without Jack nearby.

He shoves his feet into his boots and grabs one last thing - the knife. Jack's knife, _Leon's_ knife, as much as anything is really Leon's, left in the apartment for Leon to use in emergencies. Armed and armoured, he presses himself to the door frame.

"What is it?" He doesn't open the door.

"I have some packages for you from Chairman Wesker, Miss."

Miss. His first reaction is irritation that he doesn't even rate a "Ma'am", his second is unease about the female tags. His third is certainty that it isn't Jack's doing. Leon is Jack's woman, but it's a title, a place in the man's life and his bed. It's not . . . whatever this is.

 _'My compliments, Krauser. She's a lovely woman,'_ says the memory of Wesker.

Leon's stomach feels hollow, his eyes feel hot. Yeah, he knows who's started this new trend, and his thoughts roil and clash and finally fade away to white noise. Blank. Ready for whatever disaster it is he's sensing. "Drop them in front of the door and go."

"Yes, miss."

He doesn't hear the packages drop, nor the man leave. Wishes there was a peephole. Settles for waiting. Ten, fifteen minutes? He doesn't know. Long enough to feel confident about easing open the door, knife at the ready and muscles tense.

The coast is clear, and so Leon turns his attention to the packages. There are two of them: a shoebox, and one of the long, flat boxes used for dress shirts.

His mouth is dry.

He picks them up and brings them inside, wanders into the bedroom and sets them on the bedcovers. And, with numb fingers, he opens the flat box.

He pushes though thin grey paper and it's like clearing away storm clouds - the pale blue of winter sky is revealed. Silk of fine quality, embroidered with white peonies. His mind is still filled with the blank hiss of static as he pulls it out to see the full shape of this fresh . . . .

Insult?

Compliment?

His head pounds and he has to clench his teeth, squeeze his eyes shut, and he tosses the dress onto the bed before he can ruin it as he fights himself.

 _I'm Jack's woman. His woman,_ he tells himself, fingers tangling in his wet hair. _And women wear dresses all the time. It's okay. It's goddamn_ fine. _I'm fine. Everything's fine. Fine . . ._

He opens his eyes and he's looking into the room's floor length mirror. He can see himself, still damp from the bath, hair messed and muscles knotted into wire from the strain pulling at his mind. His earrings flash and sparkle because he's trembling, shaking, head going side to side in silent "no, no, no".

He can see the boxes behind him on the bed. Shoebox. Unopened.

He turns. Reaches out. And, as if diffusing a bomb, slips the cover off the shoebox with aching slowness.

Inside there's a pair of high heels.

~

It's a damn good thing Krauser has a private gym because if Leon had had to use a public one, if Leon had even crossed paths with someone on the way there, he'd have killed them. Painted the fucking walls with their blood and gone looking for more because the rage inside him has erupted in a volcanic orgy of destruction.

The world around him is fogged over with the red of animal anger. Unthinking. Unrelenting. Uncontrolled. He can't stop himself as he goes at the punching bag in Krauser's gym, battering the sack until the material is spotted darker with his own blood, then streaked, then sticky-rust as his knuckles split and bleed, as the skin is scrapped off his fingers, as he pulps his hands in an effort to vomit out this horrific feeling inside himself.

bastard _bastard BASTARD **BASTARD ******_. The word is a tornado inside his mind, spinning around the image of Wesker and growing in seething power.

He hasn't pushed himself this far since the day he'd gone stir crazy, hasn't been this mad since he finally broke. Sweating and bleeding, and fists aren't doing it, it's not _enough_. His foot lashes out in a vicious, heavy kick and sends the bag rocketing away from him. That's better. That's good.

Roundhouses and snapping side kicks, moves that force him to twist his body and whip himself around in vicious knots that uncoil faster than thought. The bag jerks and dances before him and the air burns through his lungs. He shoves the the wet hair from his face and with a final, animal snarl, kicks that fucking bag so hard it rips and bleeds it's sandy guts out onto the gym floor.

He falls to his knees and buries his fingers in the mess, clawing it, using it to draw the knotted scribbles of his anger.

He pants.

Slowly, the rage inside him sputters down and down, until it is embers in his brain. His strength goes out and he collapses onto the floor, barely manages to heave himself onto his back and lie there, sweating and bleeding and filthy with sand. He can't think yet. He can't even really feel anymore, too exhausted and burnt out to manage any kind of connection with himself.

He lies there for god knows how long, getting chilled and stiff, gaze fixed on the ceiling, frozen in that moment.

Eventually he hears the door open.

"Leon?" Krauser.

He doesn't answer. Can't. Just lies there on the floor.

"Leon? Where are you, Woman?"

His head lolls to the side as he chokes back a sudden surge of bile. Sick, sick, this is so fucking sick.

He can hear soft swearing as Krauser moves through the apartment. It stops when he reaches the bedroom.

Silence.

Krauser's seen the dress.

Does he like it? Is he smiling? Does he like the heels, strappy little silver things that'll hike Leon up four extra inches? He closes his eyes and breaths, and when he opens them again Krauser is in the door way staring down at him.

Anger stirs, the first, bright sparks of it fireflying though Leon's heart at the sight of the man because it's his fault, it's _all_ Krauser's fault. Every last sick, ugly bit of this, and Leon wants to rip the man's face from his skull and make him _scream_.

But.

But if he did that-

If he-

Hands holding him down as he chokes on cock, as he's fucked, as he's _raped._ He can't forget, not that moment, not the fear that came with it, not the safety Krauser brought with him and because of that, he hesitates. Lost. Unsure.

Krauser is sure enough for both of them.

He swaggers into the gym, unsmiling and utterly silent. He takes in the scene with a glance, focusing his gaze on Leon and pinning him down with it. He's got the high ground here as he towers above Leon's prone form, and he ruthlessly exploits it - Leon finds he can't speak under that gaze, his mouth working but nothing coming out. Not curses, not excuses, not begging.

Krauser kneels beside him and picks up the wreckage of one of Leon's hands, works the fingers and strokes bloodied skin, and frowns as Leon winces. He grabs Leon by the front of his tanktop, hauls him up and backhands him so hard Leon's head snaps back, tastes blood in his mouth as his lip splits. Punishment for having damaged Jack's property.

Then Krauser drops him. Leon's head bounces painfully on the floor. He grunts, twitches, then stirs weakly as he realizes Jack is yanking at Leon's boots. It seems like only moments until Krauser's got him stripped, but Krauser himself stays fully dressed in sharp contrast to Leon.

Leon shuts his eyes. He knows where this is going.

His legs are hoisted up, over Krauser's shoulders. It puts his ass on display, and he feels his face heat as his butt is cupped and given an appreciative squeeze. He bites his lip when a thumb traces the crack of his ass with slow deliberation, bites harder when his cheeks are spread. Finally, two of Jack's fingers push inside.

And it feels good.

Angry as he is, damaged as he is, lost and sick and bleeding, and still a shiver of pleasure skates down Leon's spine as Jack works in deeper. Three fingers now, spreading as wide as they possibly can. It's obscene to be open and empty and waiting to be filled as Jack sees fit, too close to the truth that Leon just wants to ignore, just wants to forget forever and ever.

But there's nothing to be done. He can't fight it, not with his legs over his head and stripped naked like this, Jack's fingers deep in his ass and his body wrecked from his earlier frenzy.

Not when this, at least, he understands.

How could he not? It's just such a graphic show of dominance, Krauser only unzipping his pants enough to pull out his dick, otherwise clothed and in control. Jack pinning him down. Jack holding him open. Jack pushing into him, the blunt head of his dick pushing past that first loosened ring of muscle and forging a path in, and in, and in. Deeper than his fingers reached by far, and Leon's back arches and the delightful feel of being hollowed out and burrowed into. Despite himself his legs tense, abused muscles burning as his ankle hook together behind Jack's head to pull him closer. And when Jack buries his free hand in Leon's sodden, sweaty hair Leon can't help but sigh with appreciation.

 _"I'll take good care of you."_

Jack fucks him with the ease of long practice, gathering him up and holding him close so Leon is as good as folded in half, Jack's powerful arms locking around his body to keep him captive. Trapped as he is, abused body aching and useless, he's as good as a toy for Jack to use as he sees fit.

But it's worse than that. Because his battered body might refuse to answer to Leon's call but it sure hears Jack's, limbs curling up and around to clutch and pet, to stroke in long, slow passes over the broad expanse of Jack's shoulders as thrust after thrust rock's Leon's frame, toes curling in delight at the bright, ticklish shocks of pleasure, dick hardening into an eager line point up toward Leon's face.

 _"I'll take good care of you."_

It feels good. It feels good and Leon likes it and likes that Jack's the one who does it to him. What should have been a brutal fucking is instead a slow seduction, as those powerful, rocking thrusts batter down the armour of his hate. Thrust, and Leon shudders. Thrust, and he's drowning in Jack's scent, heavy with sweat and musk. Thrust, and he's trying to match their breathing, straining to synch them up to make this better, to find the rhythm. Thrust, and he falls into place, Jack's echo, Jack's shadow . . . Jack's woman.

Sex from there is a familiar duet as Leon's body clenches around Jack, as his ass tightens and grips and it's obscene to think this way but it honest to god feels like it's sucking Jack's cock as deep as it can, drawing him in further.

"Jack." Not a name, but a sound. A low groan of pleasure. " _Jack_."

And when orgasm comes it's like a revelation. Slow sparking warmth and delight that bursts into a brilliant sunrise, Jack pouring hot come into his body and filling him with peace. He barely even notices when he hits his own shuddering peak and plummet, too busy kissing Jack, rubbing against him, nuzzling the line of his jaw. They're tangled up in each other, a knot of limbs that slumps to the ground and wallows in sweat and spilled sand.

To Leon it seems like a piece of forever. Safe. Happy. But he's so tired. So tired. Can't keep his eyes open, worn out from his fight and his surrender.

There's one thing left, though.

"Jack," he mumbles. "The shoes. I'll break an ankle if I try to fight in 'em. Please."

"I'll take care of it," Jack says.

 _"I'll take good care of you."_

~

Two days later Jack comes home with a pair of combat boots. They reek to high heaven with a chemical twang that digs into the sinuses, but when Leon sees them he drops to his knees, rips open Jack's pants and sucks down his cock like he's goddamn starving for it because he _is_.

Because the boots stink from the spray paint Jack used to gild them silver.

Glitter-pretty like the high heels to match the dress except they're something Leon can fight in. It's a compromise Leon hadn't dared to imagine, and he's completely blown away that Jack would risk Wesker's anger by messing with the man's explicit choice of wardrobe for Leon.

He sucks Jack off fast and hard right there in the entrance way, gulping down his jizz, coughing a little because he's swallowed too fast, then shuffling them both over to the couch in the sitting room were he gets Jack off again, but slow this time. Little suckling kisses up and down the length of Jack's dick, lapping at the head of it before nuzzling into the curling nest of Jack's pubes to breath in his musk. Jack's fingers tangling in Leon's hair. No pulling, no attempt to control, just a gently possessive touch as Leon strokes his thumb over the velveteen softness of Jack's balls. He gets Jack off with his hands as much as his mouth, and this time when Jack comes Leon draws back and lets it spatter across his face: the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, his lashes as his eyes flutter shut.

Jack rumbles a deep, pleased purr, and draws Leon up to sit in his lap. He rubs the tented front of Leon's pants. Gropes under Leon's tank top to pluck at a nipple. It's just idle touch, though. Already Jack's eyes are narrowing to slits, a feline expression of contentment. In a few moments he'll be asleep.

But just before he drifts off, he mumbles something.

Leon leans in closer. "What?"

"Knew you'd like them." One of his hand spreads itself across Leon's belly, the other cupping the nape of Leon's neck. "Y'er my woman. I always know what's best f'r you." Then he falls asleep, breath and heartbeat slowing to the deep rhythm of tides.

Leon stays in Jack's lap. He wipes at the semen still spattered across his face, but it's halfhearted, his mind too caught up in what Jack's just said. Something about those words make the shadow in his mind stir, but he can't quite . . .

~

The dress fits better then Leon imagined it would. He's surprised until he remembers his medical, all the notes and the measurements and the photos. Chest, shoulders, waist, hip, leg . . . They know his sizes.

 _Hell, they know my dick length. Of course, considering it's Umbrella they could have just made a clone of me to use for tailoring this thing._

But despite the perfect fit it still feels weird to wear it. Silk isn't something he's ever indulged in, and the designer tag at the neck proudly proclaimed this to be 100%. It feels strangely smooth and cool against his chest, his belly. His dick, since Jack wont let him wear underwear even now. It's easier to ignore when he's in pants, but in this outfit he's painfully aware of the lack. God help him keep from embarrassing himself with a stiffy from the teasing feel of it.

 _At least the colour looks nice on me, right?_ He snorts in bitter humour. _Gotta look for that silver lining._ "Dammit. Who the fuck am I kidding?" he mutters, and glares at himself in the bedroom mirror.

The dress Wesker sent is a sleeveless Chinese cut in pale blue silk and embroidered white peonies, with a high mandarin collar that buttons up on the left, a low hemline that swirls around Leon's calves, and slits up the sides that go far enough to prove he's not wearing anything underneath. It's undeniably feminine, but Leon takes grim pleasure in the fact that even with his earrings he still looks nothing like a woman. Not with the sleeveless cut showing off the broadness of his shoulders and chest, the wiry muscles of his arms, and the tailoring emphasizing how narrow his hips are. He's blond, so he doesn't have the satisfaction of flashing blatantly hairy shanks through those slits up the side, but he still takes quiet victory in refusing to shave himself woman-smooth.

And then Jack comes up behind him, and the contrast throws into sharp relief how petty Leon's victories really are. A handspan taller and barrel-chested, his shoulders and arms bulked with a swell of muscles that would make a Tyrant proud, Jack seems almost a caricature of masculinity in that moment. His white T-shit strains across his chiselled pecs, the loose black jacket of his dress uniform only makes his shoulders seem more square, and the black pants and polished black boots could serve as well in a street fight as in a ballroom.

Standing next to Jack like this, Leon makes a lovely woman.

"Your glass slippers," Jack says, pushing the silvered combat boots into Leon's hands. They've lost the immediate tang of spray paint, but the leather is stiff with the stuff and they're a bit awkward to put on, especially since they had to replace the black laces with white ones from someone's sneakers so they wouldn't clash. He winds up tying them only halfway, then stands.

A last glance in the mirror shows that the final effect is a bit odd, but Leon likes it. So does Jack. He slips a hand through the slits in Leon's dress to pat his ass, leans in and licks the curve of Leon's ear. "Love a woman in army boots."

Leon grins. "Only 'cuz your mom wore 'em."

He gets his ass slapped good and hard for that, but Jack is chuckling, rich and deep, as he leads the way out of the apartment.

~

It's gotten less strange to wander the halls of Umbrella. Leon's become use to their cold white sterility, the glare of their fluorescents, the potted plants at mathematically precise intervals. He's starting to appreciate the art they have hanging as well - prints of plant cells and bacteria up close, austere abstracts in grey and scarlet, framed motivational posters with the employee pledge.

 _'Obedience Breeds Discipline, Discipline Breeds Unity . . .'_ Jack makes him recite it every night as a bedtime prayer. The ritual is comfortable, even if the words aren't yet.

They make their way though the Red Umbrella wing that hold the barracks and Jack's quarter's to the manicured grounds outside. The gala is taking place in the southern end of the compound with its fountains and park, and the handful of on-site restaurants. The best of these has been commandeered for the evening, and Leon can see the windows glowing with chill blue light as he and Jack jog across the lawn.

 _They should have invested in golf carts or something. We're gonna be late at this rate._ He entertains himself with visions of just what an Umbrella golf cart would look like. _Mounted gun on the front, complimentary gas mask in the glove compartment, and fuelled by the blood of unborn children. Oh. And the logo. Gotta have the logo painted on it._ He's still mildly disappointed that Jack doesn't have it tattooed on his butt.

The weather is warm for late October, the grass yellowed despite the care lavished on it, and grasses and cactus populate the decorative gardens. Leon wonders again just where this enormous compound is located - the land he's seen from the rooftops spreading out around the compound is achingly flat and empty. Texas? New Mexico? He know they're still in the States since he recognizes the stars spread out overhead, but that's about it.

The restaurant is named Crisantemo Blanco - it could be either Italian or Spanish since both languages like tacking on extraneous Os, but Leon's willing to side with the latter considering his guestimated location - and it's a smallish building of white stucco and great, silvered windows, with flowers and artful swirls carved into the facing.

They're met by a doorman in a white suit with a white chrysanthemum in his buttonhole. Jack has to flashes his ID card to be let by, but for Leon all that's needed is a simple, "My woman, Leon."

Side by side, they stalk into the restaurant.

Like so much else in Umbrella, white is the theme for this place. White tile flooring and white walls and white chrysanthemums in pots and elegant floral displays. The small indoor fishpond that dominates the lobby is even stocked with white koi. The effect is glacial in the way that Umbrella seems to love so much. Purity so harsh it's sterile.

Dead.

And the people here aren't any more alive, despite the fact they their hearts are pumping blood and their lungs still work. Leon stands in the doorway of the banquet hall and all he sees are walking corpses. Men and women with blank faces and blank eyes dressed in their funeral best, lorded over by an inhuman monster at their centre . . . with a single scarlet rose at his side.

Ada.

 _Ada._

A hollow ringing in Leon's ears, icy chill in the pit of his gut. This place is suddenly a battlefield, hostile territory filed with pit traps and landmines and enemies under every bush.

Wesker is the same sleek viper from their interview, though this time he's upgraded his outfit with a sweeping black coat and white chrysanthemum boutonniere. He extends a hand toward them in welcome, and Jack is quick to hurry through the crowd to his side.

Leon trails in his wake, easy enough as people part before them both and it's a good thing they do because Leon is walking on autopilot, mind blank, movements nothing but reflex. His mind is filled with Ada, with the sight of her, with what her presence here means.

She's still working for Umbrella. She's still working for Wesker. She-

Wesker favours them with what you could call a smile if you squinted and tilted your head and Wesker wasn't a psychopath. Takes Ada's hand and draws her close. "Ada. You know Krauser, of course. And I believe you know his woman, Leon?"

"Yes," she says. "We met in Raccoon City." The corners of her mouth twitch upwards, but it's no more a smile then what's on Wesker's face, though hers is sad and crippled.

She isn't any less beautiful for it. Dark haired and dark eyed, delicate face. Her Chinese dress is brilliant, bloody crimson. She's a flower of womanhood, and it's obvious now that Leon's dress was chosen just for this, to make him her twisted mirror. More of Wesker's games.

She can't meet Leon's eyes. Can't even look him in the face.

And Leon . . .

Unease is in the set of Ada's shoulders, the twitch of her fingers, and he knows why. Brilliant and cunning and twice as sly as any fox, Ada has to have found out he was being held in that prison. She has to known what was done to him, what he went through, how broken he is now. Knows, and can't stand the sight of him because of it, and what he's become.

Not like he can blame her. Failed policeman-slash-government agent turned tranny and cocksucking jail bitch for his enemies. Not something he ever wanted on his resume, and the shame he'd thought he'd defeated returns with such sudden viciousness that he tastes bile in the back of his throat, sick at himself.

His world gets a little smaller in that moment. The rape might have crippled him, Jack might have chained him, but it's Ada's reaction that burns his bridges. Whatever Leon might salvage from his situation, now and forever he's cut off from the allies he had before.

"Nice to see you again," he lies, already building up walls of denial in his soul.

Then Wesker leads him around, introducing him to doctors and scientists and security staff. Leon pays close attention. This twisted, fucked up wreck is his world now, and he's got to learn fast if he wants to survive.

~

The meeting between the two women had been all Wesker had hoped. Wong has a distressing tendency to slip her leash where Kennedy is concerned, and Wesker wanted to make it clear that such nonsense will no longer be tolerated - had gone out of his way to demonstrate how totally Kennedy had been remade into Umbrella's creature.

Her stricken look, the tremble in her limbs, the sound of her heart speeding . . . how sweet the rewards of a lesson successfully taught.

As for Kennedy, it seems Krauser has her well in hand if she'll submit to Wesker's dress code without more then token protest about the shoes. A few more months to polish out the nicks and she'll be a fine weapon in his arsenal.

An excellent acquisition for Umbrella.

~

 **. . . And they all lived together in a little crooked house.**

\- TBC


	2. I Do Not Like Thee, Doctor Fell

**I do not like thee, Doctor Fell,  
The reason why, I cannot tell;  
But this I know, and know full well,  
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.**

Officially, Leon is now on light duty in the Umbrella labs. This pretty much translates to being a watered-down version of a security guard. He doesn't have a gun or a stun baton, just his knife, and his uniform is still more of Jack's castoffs, though these are respectable black pants and a t-shirt instead of worn out camo and a tanktop.

He roams about aimlessly, checking people for their ID and making sure no-one has been eaten, flipping through the manuals on company procedures and policies during his breaks. He knows better than to slack off on his meagre duties, though. Wesker himself arranged for this position, and that can only mean it's sown with landmines.

The most obvious of them is the labs themselves. They might look like glittering palaces of silver and glass ruled over by sleek men and women in snowy cotton robes, but the truth is that they're nothing more than fancy fishbowls, and the scientists are barely above the sick little kids who pluck the legs off of growing tadpoles.

Walking through the halls turns Leon's stomach. Having to nod and make polite chitchat at the water cooler with the people here is even worse. He knows that they're brilliant and they're twisted, but everything out of their mouths is so horrifically _normal_. They talk about television programs and their children at school, rumours of who's a slut and who's up for promotion, sales at the store and spam problems in their e-mail.

And all the while they are holding binders with data on how fast the newest viral agent melts skin, or reports written to convince the higher-ups that they need this many abducted children to properly understand the impact that mutagen has on growing lifeforms, or file folders filled with glossy photos of subject #9272456 who's lost mobility in her legs and arms and keeps trying to chew free of her own dead flesh.

It's just so. . .

. . . disconnected. A vast gulf between them and themselves.

Leon stares blankly through the window of one of the cells. Presses his palm to the glass, and shivers as the Licker on the other side tongues the place where his hand rests. This thing had been human once. It had a name. 

Before now he couldn't have imagined it. It was just so grotesque that he couldn't make the connection between this and a person. But they've got them in all stages here, and he can trace the horrible metamorphosis just by walking down the hall. Evolution in revers till he gets to the cell with a naked man huddling in the corner, flesh rotting away in the first, gradual steps of T-virus infection.

That's Andrew Suarez. Human sludge that Umbrella plucked from death row - two counts of murder, four aggravated assault, a host of petty offences. Leon read his files.

And he also watched him cry softly to himself as Andrew realized he was dying. Slow, and sure, and horrible.

This place is hell.

It scares the _fuck_ out of Leon.

Not only because of what he sees on the other side of the glass, but because of what it shows him of humanity. And beyond that, what it shows him of himself.

As fundamentally ugly as this place is, as sad and small and pathetic Andrew might be, Leon  can still feel the hands on his skin, can still hear the laughter of inmates who'd mocked him as he was raped. He sees them in Andrew Suarez, and a part of Leon -a bitter, broken, defiled fragment of his soul- whispers, _Serves him right to be here._ _Serves him right, serves him right, serves him right, serves him right, serves him right, serves him right-_

 _'Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted,'_ whispers his conscience.

And, _'I do solemnly swear that I will support, obey and defend the Constitution of the United States'_ says the memory of his own voice. _'I further solemnly swear that I will serve honestly and faithfully in the performance of my duties as a police officer and will accept my commission as a symbol of authority and a mark of service to the people of this community. . .'_

 _-serves him right, serves him right, serves him right, serves him right._

God. He makes himself sick. He's giving himself brutal headache, too, and he wishes idly that Jack where here so he could shut his brain off and let his man do all the thinking. No wonder Umbrella's creed begins with obedience. The people here must be grateful to submit to the yoke and let themselves be blindly led. It's sure better than facing the truth about what they're really doing.

And this, of course, is why Wesker's assigned him here. This is a setup, one that's designed to either trick Leon into lashing out or force him into embracing the corruption of blind obedience.

Wesker's miscalculated, though. If Jack had been here Leon would have been content to let him lead. But cut off all day like this Leon's forced to do his own brainwork, and he can see right to the heart of things. This place, this nightmare, this truth that he's aiding and abetting monsters . . . it's just more of the same of what's made Leon such a failure ever since he broke in prison.

That should make Leon pliant to Umbrella. Instead it cuts away what few restraints Leon might have had in keeping Jack and himself alive, and puts him even more on guard against the company. He's got too many memories of Umbrella personnel being abandoned and betrayed and fed to the laboratories in their own turn. He knows it's only a matter of time before he and Jack outlive their usefulness and find themselves on the other side of this glass.

Jack doesn't see it. Jack . . .

Leon frowns at the heavy band of scaring that still rings his wrist. It's just another memento of how chained he is to Jack, another obvious tag. He wishes Jack's own ties were as obvious and visible, because for all Leon's joking about Umbrella logo tattoos it would have been nice to know how Umbrella's got the man bound.

Somehow, someway, for some reason Leon doesn't get, Jack is as chained to Umbrella as Leon is to Jack. Which means that if Umbrella turns on them, Jack is likely to just _let_ it.

Completely unacceptable, but it's a problem Leon can't solve at this point, and he frown turns to a scowl, his fingers tightening into a fist.

"Oh, my. Keep frowning like that, miss, and you'll give yourself wrinkles."

And this is another problem Leon really wants to solve. "Thanks for the concern, but Jack gives a killer facial. Does wonders for my skin," he drawls, turning from the Licker's tank to give his best blandly pleasant smile to Doctor Laurent, who twitches a sneer in return.

The day after Leon's 'debut' at the party, Wesker sent out a memo. A picture of Leon's face, his name . . . and the direction to treat him with every courtesy a woman deserves.

Leon had spent a good half hour dry-heaving with impotent rage and revulsion when Jack showed it to him, and even now, days later, the thought of it still makes his skin crawl. God knows why. It's not like it's any secret that he's Jack's woman, and anyways shouldn't it make him happy that everyone knows and respects that? Isn't this the protection he wanted?

But despite all the work he's put into accepting his new life it still feels violating. Degrading. Probably because so many of the people here _make_ it degrading. They call him "Miss Leon" through their smirks, hold doors open for him with exaggerated care, show him to the woman's bathroom when he asks directions to the john, and the only defence Leon's found is to agree with them, even to the point of shoving it in their faces. They tend to back off when Leon answers their questions to tell them just how sore his ass is from his last fucking, just how much he likes the taste of Jack's dick, and that yeah, he will lick Jack's boots if he's told to.

Laurent is like that. Gets off on making sly comments and shit, but gets uncomfortable at how honest Leon is about come on his face. He's persistent, though, enough that Leon is starting to suspect that there's something more bubbling under the surface.

"So there's a soft and caring side to even the most vicious brute. Not that I'm surprised. Do you know that Lickers will curl together when at rest, and Plagas hosts will groom each other despite species differentials?"

 _Actual conversation? Huh. This is new. Is he finally gonna make his move?_ "Sorry, but I'm not exactly an expert. They just don't stay alive long enough for me to notice behavioural quirks."

The slight narrowing of eyes and the twitch of Laurent's shoulders are bright little flags to Leon. Not happy with the reminder Leon's killed so many of these not-so-super weapons. Annoyed? Pissed? No. He's shifted away slightly. Worried, then.

But despite whatever fear Laurent's feeling he's still confident enough to keep dangling bait: "Don't put yourself down. You might not be familiar with these common specimens, but you've admitted yourself you're the foremost expert on the anatomy of a Control-Plagas' host." He sends Leon a sideways glance. "And you've gotten to observe Chairman Wesker up close as well, I'm told." Calculation is heavy in his pause. ". . . and maybe personal?"

The memory of Wesker's touch lingering over Leon's pulse point rises up, hot and violating, and Leon has to fight to keep the goosebumps from his skin, the revulsion off his face. He uses this new puzzle as a distraction. What's the angle here? This could just be office gossip but it feels all wrong for Laurent. "We haven't exactly talked a lot." It's his turn to do a little fishing of his own. He trails his fingers along the side of his neck, lowers his gaze. Shrugs one shoulder in a careless way. "All I can really tell you is that he's got a light touch. Lot of control for so much power."

The veil of Leon's lashes hides his gaze as he studies Laurent's reaction. Slight narrowing of eyes again, the flicker of tension at the mouth.  
 _  
Don't like the idea of one of Wesker's toys in your department, huh? Can't exactly blame you._

But Leon knows the kinds of politics the people at Umbrella play. If Laurent is worried about Wesker it's not for altruistic reasons. He must be playing some kind of double cross.

 _And since working for Umbrella guarantees he's paranoid, he probably thinks I'm spying for Wesker and his next move is gonna be to try and kill me. Fun._

"Well, since you are-" a slight curl of Laurent's lip, "-pardon, since you _know_ what Wesker likes, perhaps you'd be open to giving me some advice. I have a side project I've been working on. Nothing major, you understand, just a bit of tweaking of the base t-virus infected and an attempt at remote control based off the T-103 data."

Leon lifts an eyebrow. Despite himself, he's curious. "I thought that a zombie's brain was too deteriorated for something like that."

"For someone who's 'not exactly an expert', you're well informed on the details. But you see, even if a baseline zombie's neuro system is so much slop, it doesn't stay that way."

Laurent turns from the tanks and begins walking down the hall, motioning Leon to follow. He does, falling into step beside the scientist as they head toward the rear of the labs where the holding tanks are.

Laurent continues, "As our display tanks show, given enough time a baseline zombie can eventually evolve into a Licker, an entirely new creature with a full set of instincts and reflexes. That suggests that a zombie's brain isn't actually deteriorated so much as it is _emptied_ \- being rewritten by the virus. Once you realize that, a whole new set of possibilities unfold before you."

They've reached the tanks, and take the staircase up to walk along the metal catwalks. Below them is a single female zombie, its short blond hair turned sickly pale in the lab light, what looks to be a heavy metal collar around its neck. Something about the creature nags at Leon, but he needs to focus on Laurent at this point and so pushes it out of his mind.

Laurent leans against the catwalk railing and stares down at them, a half-smile on his face. "Neuroprograming is a touchy business, very individualistic even with the virus to reset things for you, so they can't be mass produced into decent shock troops. Las Plagas is still far superior for that. But Plagas in general are difficult to control, and impossible to program; the parasite interferes with the internal wiring too much, if you will. And the more powerful the Plagas, the more sentience it retains. That pesky free will coupled with predatory instincts makes them a headache. Now, these," he gestures down at the zombie. "This one I've succeeded in at least programming to move from here to there effectively, and I think that with time such a creature could be marketed as an excellent drone worker for specialized jobs, something you just can't do with the Plagas. And of course, it remains to be seen if the programming can be carried over to Lickers. If it can . . ."

"Remote controlled stealth killers? And here I thought Umbrella didn't know the meaning of the word 'subtle'," Leon says, coming to lean on the railing beside Laurent. "What's the range on the-"

His mind goes blank in shock for only a heartbeat as the railing gives beneath him and he tumbles forward into space, and then reflexes kick in and he twists in the air like a cat, landing lightly on his feet in the slick metal box that's the zombie pen, letting himself fall into a crouch to duck the sudden lunge of the zombie, using the coiled force in his legs to push him up and forward to the wall so he can get his back against it.

"My apologies, Miss Leon," Laurent calls down. "I'd have just shot you and spared you this, but after your hulking mate's display of possessive violence it seemed more prudent to make this an accident."

"If you think Jack is dumb enough to buy that this is an accident then you obviously tested your lobotomy techniques on yourself before this thing," Leon shouts back, knife in hand, out and ready as the zombie shuffles closer.

"Believe it, no. But without proof Wesker will never allow him to take action against me. The science division's testimonies always take priority over those of the military branch when it's one-to-one their word against ours."

"I know you're a biologist, but don't you still need basic math skills to qualify for a labcoat? Jack and I against you isn't one-to-one."

Laurent frowns. " _You_ won't be joining us. I'm going to take care of some overdue genetic purging right here, right now. I've read your file, _Miss_ Kennedy, and I've seen the tapes. You're weak, flawed. Cracked right through the soul after your time in jail. And what's already cracked is easy to crush." Now he smiles as he pulls out a little remote control. "Who knows? Maybe you'll enjoy it. You seem to have a taste for the depraved."

He makes a big show out of pushing the remote's button. Asshole.

He leaves with a swirl of white labcoat but Leon isn't watching him because the zombie is closing in and its mouth open and then- and then-

It _speaks_.

And what it says sends chills right through him.

"Le~~~on. Help. me Leon."

The nagging familiarity he'd had back up on the catwalk comes back with a vengeance - blonde hair in a pageboy cut over an oval face, the little green skirt. It's been over a year since he's seen her but, "Ashley?" he breaths.

"Le. On," she answers, and he chokes back hysterical laughter.

It can't be Ashley. It can't. President Graham is still in office and there's no way even Umbrella could kidnap her when the entire American military would fall on their heads . . .

 _Because it's never happened before, right?_

The eyes are the wrong colour. The ears are off. She wasn't this tall. There's no way she'd still have that ugly orange tank top. But memory backstabs Leon with razored slivers of doubt because he's been been cut off from the outside world for months and so wouldn't know if she was missing, because he can't quite picture what her face _should_ look like if not this, because she's still a growing girl and maybe she'd kept the top like he had his old cop uniform, a token of survival.

"Help. Me. Le~~~on."

They do an odd sort of dance, with Ashley -no, the zombie - no, Ashley? - shuffling forward and him stumbling back, strangely clumsy as the world tilts around him. Is this Ashley? Is it just some random blonde Laurent dug up and rewired? Is it the ghost of his old life, come to drag him to hell for what he's done and how he's failed, failed, _failed_?  
 _  
'You're to protect the President's daughter,'_ he'd been told, and he'd been furious and flattered by turns: angry at being taken away from his hunt for Umbrella, pleased at the professional compliment. Rookie cop to a-list bodyguard.

He raises his knife but his muscles locked up when he tries to strike. To kill a zombie with a blade you have to mutilate it. Stab it in the face. Cut off its head. He still remembers waking up in a cold sweat for weeks after the mission, visions of just that in his nightmares, her pale hair fanning out in the dirt, her brown eyes blank, her body four feet farther from its head than it should ever be. __

 _'The President sent me to rescue you,'_ he'd said and she'd looked at him like he was her own personal miracle, something bright and shining and utterly alien to what he is now.

"Leon. Help. Hel~~p." Those reaching hands are pale and bloodless, and she'd reached for him the same way as that giant bug had carried her off, had clung to him so tight in fear when he'd gotten her back. Warm body. Scratchy wool sweater. Smell of her soap and blood and muck and sweat and rot, just like this creature here.  
 _  
'You'll come to my graduation, right? It's in June! The whole Hospitality gang is gonna go out for drinks after . . .'_ she'd coaxed,because she'd carried a torch for him ever since that nightmare.

For a few short days she'd been the centre of his world. "Ashley. . . "

"Leon. I. Misssssed you~" the creature slurs. It catches him the way his memories have, fingers closing around his throat, and for one dark moment he feels like letting it have its way. The self-hate is back, black tar in his soul, and it pulls him down and down.

He should fight it.

But he's so tired.

"Le~~~on." This close to the zombie he can see the delicate glints of silver on it: the staples where the scalp has been reattached after the lobotomy, the fillings in its back teeth, the wires that sprout from its collar to burrow into its temples, its throat, its spine.

Its fingers are strong around his throat as it starts to crush his larynx.

 _Jack'll be pissed._

The thought is the faintest spark in the darkness eating his sight as he's strangled, but the heat of it burns and spits inside him, catches on his will to survive, flares up in a bright flame of anger because Jack is such a hypocrite getting pissed at Leon for falling into memory and being killed by it, but he'll let himself be tamely lead to his own death by ideals and Umbrella.  
 _  
Stupid sonofabitch. And he says I'm the one who needs looking after? Tch. Bastard probably won't even see it coming._ _'s not like he's got any kind of common sense about this stuff._

Common sense?

The words hang in the darkness around him: "Help me, Leon."

Common sense says there's only one way to help a zombie.

He crams his knife into its gaping mouth, up through the softness of pallet and into the brain. Its hands spasm, loosen, and he somehow gets a leg up between them and kicks the creature from him in a last burst of energy.

He hears the wet thump of it hit the floor a few feet from him. The pounding of blood in his ears as life returns. The whooping gasps of his own breath. The pneumatic hiss and chorus of groans as the door to the holding cell opens and admits more zombies.  
 _  
Shit!_

He doesn't even bother to look, just scrambles to his feet and bolts for his knife. It's stuck, takes one, two yanks for him to pull it free in a mess of blood and zombie spit, and then he's up again and with his back to the wall.

He was incredibly lucky that Laurence programmed the fake Ashley to talk to Leon instead of trying for a bite, but it seems that luck's run out now. There's more than a dozen zombies crowding the doorway. He can see more of them in the cell beyond. And the cell he's in now is small and bare and far too open for this fight. Laurent is no doubt expecting Leon to hang back and get himself overhelmed as the zombie pour through, or maybe lunge forward in some crazy charge and get trapped that way, pulled into the mob by grasping hands.

Maybe that would have happened except that Laurent's lost his advantage. Leon isn't mired in the past anymore. He's not caught in some past trauma, not beaten down by sick seduction or fucked up on drugs - his mind is as sharp as the cut of his blade.

And he knows how to handle zombies.

He darts forward only to jerk up short and dart away, making the most of what little room he has and drawing one out in front of the other, a foot, two, and it's just enough for him to come in and slash at its face to throw it off balance and then whirl into a roundhouse kick.

The thing's head makes the satisfying wet sound of a crushed melon and its body flies backwards into the throng, and the zombies aren't coordinated enough to compensate, toppling at the impact.

Speed is the key as Leon darts in and stomps down hard on a skull, uses his downward momentum to drive his knife through the eye of another, then pushes off with his legs to fling himself back toward the safety of the wall. That's got another staggering toward him and he repeats the trick, pausing only long enough to whirl inside the reach of one who'd manage to duck its fellows' tumble and feed it his blade as well.

In and out of the crowd he darts, using his speed and reflexes to stay ahead, and when one of them lunges at him too fast he goes with it and grabs it and hauls it up and over and down in a graceful suplex.

He is sweating, hair sticking to his face so he has to toss his head impatiently to get it clear, and he grins as he feels his earrings sway and brush his cheeks. Jack might have been pissed about the Ashley-zombie, but he'd have no complaints about Leon's performance now.

 _Maybe I should stay messy until he gets home tonight. He likes me covered in blood._

It takes maybe ten minutes to clear the zombies. Leon's muscles burn with pleasant heat, sweet affirmation he's alive. He's still a bit out of shape from forced captivity, though it's not nearly as bad as he'd worried. He paces the two cells restlessly, looking for a way out, making sure the dead stay down, and finally he says to hell with it and starts to make his own exit - pilling the corpses one on the other in a sloppy pile of rotting flesh and bone. A human ladder is awkward as hell, but he manages to scramble up high enough that he can jump the last few feet, and he grunts in satisfaction when his fingers catch the slick catwalk above.

He hauls himself up and out with straining arms, heaving himself onto the catwalk and leaving sticky red hand and foot prints in his wake.

He runs bloody fingers through his hair and grimaces. He's a mess, a certified biohazard.  
 _  
Shower tonight_ , he decides. _Jack and I can play kinky games some other time. This is just gross._

Before he can make plans for the evening there's still one thing left to take care of, however. He stalks off into laboratories, knife in hand once more and face cold and grim. Laurent is about to find out why he really should have just shot Leon.

~

Laurent's not a complete idiot - he does try to shoot Leon. But he's a crappy shot and Leon's expecting it, anyways, and so it's Leon's shirt, not Leon himself, that gets shot as Leon waves it in the doorway. In the instant after Laurent's blown six holes in Leon's clothing, Leon himself ducks inside and lets his knife fly, hitting the man in the bicep and making him drop the gun.

"No!" Laurent wails. "No, you can't kill me! You can't!"

"I'm not gonna," Leon replies. He yanks his knife out and cleans the blade on the man's lab coat, sheaths it. Then he punches Laurent as hard as he can in the gut, right under the ribs in the pit of his diaphragm. Laurent's breath whooshes out of him, leaving him doubled up and hacking for air, and Leon takes the opportunity to retrieve the gun and then check Laurent's computer.

As he thought, Laurent was in the middle of deleting files, probably panicking when he saw Leon making short work of the zombies. The man's a biologist, though, not a programmer, and Leon knows a few tricks. It takes just a few minutes' finagling to get those files back, the only real difficulty being in keeping Laurent quiet on the floor. Leon manages with strategic kicks to the man's face and sides. Laurent screams abuse at him, calling him everything from a cocksucking whore to shit-brained psychopath, but Leon's too busy skimming the data that Laurent tried to get rid of to really care. Incriminating stuff - files stolen from other projects and still labelled for other people, cryptic e-mails that hint at outside deals, speculation about Wesker's mutations and their potential sabotage. It all goes onto a flashdrive Leon finds in a desk drawer.

When he's ready to go he kneels and gives Laurent one last punch to the gut, then grabs one of Laurent's ankles and starts dragging.

He walks fast, hauling Laurent after him like a wailing sack of potatoes, pausing only to give him a solid kick in the ribs when Laurent tries grab hold of desks, chairs, people, in an effort to stop Leon's trek through the labs and the halls, down stairways and out the door into another of the compound's buildings entirely.

"Stop!" Laurent is shrieking. "You're insane! Where the hell are you taking me? I demand you stop at once!"

He's making a spectacular scene and everyone is watching him, watching Leon, but no one dares interfere. Shock? Fear? Leon really doesn't give a damn. He's too busy taking secret smug pleasure at tracking bloody footprints across Umbrella's pristine floors. The cleanup crew's going to have a hell of a time disinfecting the place. He'd almost feel bad for them except that they work for Umbrella and so are assholes by default. He can't even bring himself to care about a potential outbreak, the thought of this place eating itself alive just too much like poetic justice.

But he's reached his destination now, and he knocks politely despite knowing that the howling's got to have announced him already, and he waits for the "Enter" before opening the door and dragging his victim inside.

Wesker looks up from his computer screen and steeples his fingers at his lips, gloved hands in stark contrast to his pale face. He raises a single eyebrow. "Well?"

"Security guard Kennedy reporting, sir. I've brought you a corporate saboteur." He twitches his head back toward Laurent who's now gone utterly still and silent and very carefully keeps the satisfaction off his face as the faintest shadow of a smile graces Wesker's lips.

Because this was a test, too.

Wesker's not an idiot, and he didn't get to where he is now by being oblivious to the knives people want to stick in his back. Either he already knew about Laurent or he suspected. Sending Leon in was probably just hitting two birds with one stone by getting rid of Laurent and seeing if Leon knows how far to push.

That's the thing about Wesker's type. There is _nothing_ Wesker values like power in all its thousand forms, nothing he craves so much as the subjugation of all around him, nothing he loves so much as others bowing down. Yeah, Leon could probably have killed Laurent without repercussion, but that would have marked him as a wild card, someone to keep on a tight leash. This little show Leon's putting on, though, tells Wesker not only that he's in charge, but that Leon knows it. That life and death are decisions Leon bows to Wesker to make.

Not that this wasn't a bit of a risk: there was always the chance that Wesker would get paranoid about someone being able to read him so well. The thing is, though, Wesker's ego is so huge that he probably can't believe that anyone could ever _really_ be able to figure him out. So instead he takes this just as Leon had hoped: as his just due, a fitting tribute from his latest pawn.

"A serious accusation," Wesker purrs. "I hope you have proof."

"Yes sir." Leon pulls out the flash disk and shows it to Wesker, walks forward and lays it on Wesker's desk at the man's nod.

Laurent is up on all fours clawing hopeless at the door, whimpering, sobbing. Leon's eyes narrow.  
 _  
So Wesker's office door can lock remotely, huh? Did he do that from his computer, or is it automatic when the door shuts?_

Just another detail to file away for now.

Wesker is shaking his head, chuckling as he peruses what Leon's brought him. "My, my. You have been naughty, haven't you, Laurent? It seems I'll have to punish you after all. A pity. I do hate having to hire new help." His sunglasses glint as he turns his face to Leon. "Kill him."

"Sir."

He's already made a ruin of Wesker's office with his bloody footprints so Leon doesn't worry about adding to it. He stalks Laurent across the office with measured strides, and this time he doesn't bother hiding his satisfaction. The man tries to fight, howling and cursing the whole time, arms flailing clumsy punches Leon ducks with ease, and he's expecting a knife in the face so Leon sticks it in Laurent's back instead, waiting until  the man to tries a clumsy lunge, whirling behind him and stick the knife into Laurent's kidney.

He twists it out, making scarlet bloom in a bright, sodden rose on Laurent's lab coat, and as Laurent staggers to his knees and keens in pain Leon presses a hand Laurent's back and counts the ribs, aims. Shoves his knife into Laurent's heart.

Choking gasp.

Laurent topples over, dead.

Leon pulls his knife out again, and then, grunting with effort, uses it to sever the spine at the neck. He'd been killing zombies with that knife, after all. No point in getting sloppy and leaving Laurent to rise again.

"Efficient," says Wesker when Leon rises and turns to face him once more. "It seems you're being wasted in your current capacity. I'll have to see if I can find you something to give you more of a challenge."

"Sir," Leon says. Salutes.

Another day done at Umbrella. Another rung up the ladder of making himself useful. And another step down a road toward a nebulous goal he's only starting to realize. Something beyond survival. Something not for him, but for Jack . . .

The scars around his wrist ache.


End file.
